Confessions of an unpublished novelist

Sometimes I think it would be liberating if all my old manuscript pages went up in flames.

When I say, “I’m researching,” it’s just code for, “I’m not writing.”

I go months “researching.”

There are moments when my characters totally perplex me.

Those moments are terrifying.

If I want to bail on a social event, I say I’m in a groove on a chapter and can’t step away.

“Grooves” are rare.

I hate my stories almost as much as I love them.

I feel the most complex mix of emotions when a friend publishes.

Nothing irritates me more than reading a crappy book, knowing that a publisher somewhere sings its praises.

Nothing inspires me more than a brilliantly-written book that took years to find a publishing house to call home.

I want a manager to handle my submissions and rejections. Because I can’t.

My dad has offered to be my manager.

I love my dad too much to make him a character in a book. Same with my mom.

I wonder if this means I’m not a courageous enough writer.

Most of my stories, while fiction, are triggered by a very non-fictional fear or conflict, something I don’t know how to deal with directly.

I can’t seem to write a book in which nobody dies.

Nearly every romantic relationship I’ve had is in one of my stories. Somewhere.

I fiddle with tense–past vs present–and perspective–first person vs third–when I’m afraid to call a story “done.”

I have lots of excuses.

When I say publishing isn’t that important to me anymore, I’m lying.

Nothing means more to me than someone reading my work and wanting to talk about it.

I write because I want to be understood for who I really am.